


Equals

by oneangstychick



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Owen's questionable mental health, Past Owen/Gwen, Past Owen/Katie, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5985676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneangstychick/pseuds/oneangstychick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s closer than you think.”</p>
<p>Mark’s eyes were gleaming, his mouth seducing the words.</p>
<p>“Something’s coming. Out there in the darkness, something is coming.”</p>
<p>And Owen didn’t have to ask what it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equals

“Mr. Harper?”

Owen hesitated before shifting his briefcase and extending his hand. His first instinct had been to correct the man (Doctor, actually), but right now he was having a go at being someone else. 

“Mark Lynch. You’re looking to relocate your business to Cardiff?”

“Yeah.” Sure. Whatever Tosh had decided. Mr. Harper wasn’t a doctor, and that was what mattered. Owen concentrated on Mark’s hand pumping his own. Businesslike, masculine. Not hearty or wimpy. Assured.

“And you export jellied eels. Really?”

Of course, Mark. Tosh is pissed about Gwen, so now Mr. Harper exports eels for a living. Owen looked out the window, tossing some half-arsed explanation over his shoulder. The sky was broken into patches from here. Squares and rectangles, separated by the ever-rising Cardiff skyline. Mark asked something about family, and Owen didn’t miss the hint of flirting, testing the waters. A cloud scuttled out from the edge of one building, dashing for the protection of another.

“Just me,” he answered, watching the cloud’s furtive movements, “It’s better that way.”

Owen let Mr. Harper, entrepreneur in the field of jellied eels, take over the business of getting an oceanside warehouse. He let Mr. Harper pretend to look at papers while Owen pressed the alien device that would give Tosh access to Mark Lynch’s networks against a computer. He let Mr. Harper’s rage slam the papers down, call Mark’s suggestions shitholes, because Owen knew he was hiding the one warehouse Torchwood wanted. Owen didn’t miss the interest in Mark’s responding smile, but Mr. Harper did. In fact, Mr. Harper went right along when Mark asked if he would be free at the end of the day. Mr. Harper answered ‘no’ to being set up with one of Mark’s secretaries. Mr. Harper shook Mark’s hand and ignored its size, its grip, and its apparent intent to linger. But Owen wasn’t surprised when Mark Lynch called to take him to a pub.

 

There was a fight at the pub. Cross words from an earlier life tangled with this new one, and they were throwing punches and oh, for a moment he was alive. Mark smiled like a devil as Owen kicked a man in the ribs, over and over, snapping ribs five through eight, envisioning the bruised muscles, the fluids rushing to comfort cracked bones. Mark was still smiling as they jostled through the door, swirling ahead of the sirens.

 

They weren’t drunk enough. Adrenaline and stumbling halfway across Cardiff had burned off more than enough of their blood-alcohol content. So Mark’s offer of a beer at his place wasn’t just a suggestion, it was a necessity. 

“This is your gaff?” Owen asked.

“Make yourself at home,” Mark answered, stripping out of his jacket.

Owen shuffled a bit around, balancing the proper amount of polite awe of the stainless steel and sharp design with expected disinterest. He pretended not to notice when Mark slipped his shirt off his shoulders, changing slowly right in front of him. He even managed to hide his relief when they moved to the kitchen, Mark tossing him a beer and a bottle-opener with a nonchalance that belied his topic of conversation.

“You’re officially successful. And what does it bring? Nothing. Success has no worth other than itself.”

“Seriously,” Owen responded incredulously. Was Mark seriously trying this line on him? How many times had Owen himself used some bullshit fantasy about his mountains of wealth not affecting his head when he was out on the pull?

“I could live without all this. It doesn’t define me.”

“Yeah, nice to have it though.” It was a response he had heard Katie use years ago, when they’d been out and some bloke tried to hit her up even with him sitting right next to her. It had shut the wanker right up, and they’d had a good laugh about it later, snuggled in bed.

“There’s so much more. If you know where to look.”

Apparently it wasn’t going to work on Mark. Served him right for following the man home. “Is that right?”

“It’s closer than you think.”

Mark’s eyes were gleaming, his mouth seducing the words.

“Something’s coming. Out there in the darkness, something is coming.”

And Owen didn’t have to ask what it was.

 

The first round is on the couch. Mark’s dick was as big as his hands had hinted. Owen stared at the red leather and let Mark fuck him dry. His pants were still on, belt loosened just enough to bare his ass. Owen didn’t get hard, and he didn’t complain when Mark came inside him.

The second time he was on his way to the bathroom when Mark grabbed him from behind. He whispered philosophy, anger and darkness, as he nipped along Owen’s jaw. When his mouth got too close to Owen’s lips, he bit back. They tussled on the floor, fists and feet tangling until Mark was on top, knees on his shoulders, erection pressed in his face. Owen licked halfheartedly and didn’t gag when Mark shoved his dick down his throat. When he was finally let go, he ran up the spiral staircase, one eye trained on where Mark was spread out on the couch, hair mussed and shirt rumpled, sipping calmly at another beer.

 

He wasn’t surprised when Mark caught him in the storage room with the weevil. Mildly disappointed, perhaps. Mark had to have felt the gun strapped tidily under his jacket. And a lock being picked sounds far different from using a toilet.

“Mark, mate, I’m really sorry. I couldn’t resist a padlock…”

“What do you think?” Mark asked, ignoring Owen’s feeble excuse.

“What is it?” Even to his own ears, it sounded poorly acted.

Mark just laughed. “I think it’s us, Owen. You and me. In a thousand years’ time. This is what we become, when all we have left is our rage.”

Owen could feel Mark’s cum drying inside him, sticking his asscheeks together. He stared right at Mark’s eager, glittering eyes, ignoring the moans of the weevil strung up next to them.

“Who are you, Owen Harper?”

He didn’t say that he was an echo of a person, an afterimage of rage and loathing. Instead he opened his jacket, displaying his Torchwood-issued gun.

“Is that who you are?” Mark asked, stepping closer, “A little kid hiding behind a gun.”

Mark’s breath was hot on his cheek, the smell of fermented barley bittersweet. Owen pulled out the gun, tossing it aside without even checking that the safety was on. Mark’s hands were on him at once.

“Good boy,” he said, fingers roving proprietarily across his chest, tugging once again at his belt, “We’re finally getting somewhere.

“Now you’re just you,” Mark whispered as they sank to the floor, “Stripping things back to the core, Owen.”

The weevil moaned, chains jangling, as Mark slowly buried himself in Owen again. “Now we’re just two blokes,” he hummed, “Equals.”

 

He was going to stop them, he said. He didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. Mark wanted him to climb in a cage with a weevil, wanted him to join in a game of dare. How long can you hold the burning match before you chicken out? How long can you stare into the face of a weevil?

He was striding down the hallway, going back the way they had come. Going to find Jack. Going to shut it down.

“How long are we going to keep playing this game, Owen?” Mark shouted, and now he was standing still. “You lie, you bullshit and sweet talk. But you are hiding, Owen.”

Owen turned, shaking his head. Mark had his gun.

“Get in the cage.”

Just two blokes, Owen thought. “Not if you’re gonna point a gun at me.”

“Do you want me to shoot you?”

Is that who you are? Owen took a step closer. “Lower the gun. And then I will get into the cage.”

Mark cocked it instead. Owen walked up to him, stared at his wavering eyes, his twitching lips. The gun dropped.

He put his mouth right up to Mark’s. His breath still smelled like beer.

“Good boy.”


End file.
